


Leavetaking

by Atiaran



Series: Samara [4]
Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout: New Vegas
Genre: Gen, Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-10
Updated: 2014-02-10
Packaged: 2018-01-11 20:56:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,106
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1177838
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Atiaran/pseuds/Atiaran
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Courier sets off on her journey to go battle Ulysses at the Great Divide.  Her suite isn't happy about it.  Female Courier, named Samara; mild spoilers.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Leavetaking

**Standard disclaimer:** None of the characters, places, etc. in this story are mine, but are instead the property of Bethesda Game Studios.  No copyright infringement is intended by their use in this story.

**Author’s note:** Inspired by me wondering what exactly all your companions think when you go off to do DLC, since they never seem to acknowledge it in any way in-game.  May be a sequel, as soon as I can figure out how to write a playthrough of Lonesome Road without it coming across as tedious, repetitive and boring.   I’m also sporadically working on a much, much longer Fallout : New Vegas / Fallout 3 crossover that should be epic if / when I finally finish it, as well as a couple other projects, but we’ll see. 

 

The night sky over the Mojave was one of the most stunning sights Arcade had ever seen.

A rich, lustrous black shading to cobalt blue, with a flare of yellow and white where the lights of New Vegas twinkled in the distance, the sky arced over the arid desert like a vast dome, sealing to the mountains in the west and east.  Against that expanse, stars blazed forth: chips of diamond studding the night sky, cold and perfect in their remoteness.  Sometimes, gazing upwards into the blackness, Arcade would suddenly feel himself gripped with vertigo, as if he were in danger of falling forever into that endless deep; then, shaking, he would reach out and hold on to the nearest solid object to steady himself until the sensation passed.

“There are more of them, you know.”

Startled, Arcade glanced over at his companion.  “I beg your pardon?”

“More stars. Than those.  You know.” Samara gestured upwards at the heavens.

They were out on the raft in the middle of Lake Mead.  They’d spent the entire day diving, exploring and bringing up loot from the lake bottom and the underwater Lake Mead cave; finally, as the sun dropped toward the horizon and the air began to chill, Samara had called a halt.  She’d decreed that they’d spend the night on the Scavenger Platform.  There had been a few Lakelurks, but he, Samara, and ED-E had made short work of them; the Lakelurk meat had made an excellent dinner, eaten while the sun set in a brilliant flourish of light and the stars above came out, sparkling in the sky above and the lake below. 

Arcade had been lying on his back with his hands behind his head, watching the evening sky; now he sat up, feeling the deck shift beneath him.  At the far end of the raft, ED-E bobbed, a bristling, round shadow; Samara was another dark shape, silhouetted against both sky and water, her features lost in the blackness.  Arcade frowned, trying to pierce the gloom and make out her expression.  It should have been Boone here now with her, he thought, except… _Except._

“What makes you say that?” he asked her.

Samara shifted a bit.  “I know there are more.  I _saw_ them.”  She paused, then said quietly, “While I was away.”

The words were clear and perfect, carved out of the night.  Arcade straightened and looked at her closely.  Some distance off, a fish jumped, then fell back into the lake with a splash, leaving only a ring of spreading ripples behind.

_While I was away._   In the past few months, just as the situation with the Legion began to build to a head, Samara had become restless, irritable.  She had started to go out on her own more often, leaving all the rest of them behind--even Boone, who had been her more-or-less constant companion since the day she’d taken him to hunt Legion.  Boone had accepted this in silence, maintaining his tight-lipped reserve even when needled about it by Veronica.

“Aren’t you worried something will happen to her?” Veronica had pressed him, her voice a shade too thin and her face haggard.  Arcade, watching, had drawn his own conclusions.

The First Recon sniper lowered his sunglasses and turned those snakelike eyes on her.

“Samara can go where she wants. She doesn’t need someone to look after her.  She can--“ He’d paused here for a moment, and his eyes had gone distant.  When he’d spoken again, Arcade had looked at him sharply: there was an almost imperceptible -- warmth? -- in the cold sniper’s tone.  “That woman can take care of herself.  And anyone else who happens to cross her.”  He’ d ended on an exhale that was not quite--but _almost_ \-- a chuckle, and turned his attention back to his sniper rifle.  That had been the end of it.

Despite Samara’s increasing absences, life in the suite had gone on more or less as usual…until a few months ago.  Samara had stepped out one day, mentioning to no one where she was going; she hardly ever did these days.  When nightfall came and went with no sign of her, nobody had been unduly worried: Samara was often gone for a day or two at a stretch when she went on one of these jaunts.

But the next day came and went; as did the day after that, and the day after _that;_ and still she did not return _._   And as the days stretched into one week, then two, then more, concern turned to alarm.

Each of them had turned to their contacts in the days that followed.  Arcade had asked among the Followers of the Apocalypse, while Cass had hit the caravan watering holes, dicing and drinking with traders and mercenaries.  Veronica had gone to the Brotherhood, and Boone had checked in with some of his old First Recon buddies.  All of them had turned up empty.  In desperation, Boone, Cass and Arcade had finally approached Chief Hanlon at Camp Golf.  Even he knew nothing, either; but he did express alarm at hearing she was gone.  As well he should, Arcade thought grimly; Samara had been well on her way to achieving national hero status with the NCR by that time.

The Lucky 38’s Presidential Suite had been filled with dread.  Lily, as usual, had seemed clueless--or was she?  Arcade had sometimes wondered to himself if the old Nightkin was as out of it as she seemed--but the rest of them had been almost out of their minds with worry.  Cass spent almost every waking moment with the caravaners, mining for any scrap of information she could find.  Veronica looked pale and miserable, as if she were constantly on the verge of tears.  Raul, the old ghoul, seemed more philosophical about Samara’s disappearance than most, maintaining calmly, “The boss’ll turn up again.  When she’s good and ready.”  However, even he spent time trolling the dives and slums of Freeside and Westside, talking to the dispossessed and the drifters, to no avail.

Of them all, Boone took it the hardest.  After he and Samara had gotten together, he’d been calmer, more even-tempered; he’d even seemed to be coming out of his shell a little, and would unbend enough to occasionally join in their informal gatherings around the dinner table--though he never said much, content to nurse a whiskey or scotch and sit next to Samara as conversation, jokes and banter flowed freely.  Now, he was closed off, tight as a drumhead. There was a tension in all his movements, a low boil underneath the monosyllables that were all he allowed himself:  a towering rage that seemed to be seeking only an excuse to explode into violence.  Arcade had dared to approach him once, his heart in his throat, hoping tentatively to offer comfort of some sort, but Boone had turned on him with such fury that for a moment he’d feared the First Recon sniper would actually strike him.   Thereafter, Arcade had left him strictly alone, cursing himself; Boone had already made it abundantly clear that his attentions were unwelcome. 

The entire suite was in an uproar; things couldn’t go on the way they were--

Then, one day about four weeks after she’d left, Samara had returned, simply stepping out of the elevator into the Presidential Suite as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

She looked like death warmed over.  She’d lost weight, had picked up several new scars, and showed the jitteriness that Arcade knew from long experience signaled severe chem addiction. She’d been carrying loads and loads of loot: unfamiliar weaponry, jars of a strange reddish substance that she called “Cloud residue,” whatever that meant, and something else, something that Arcade had never seen before but recognized from books.  He was certain that no one else in the suite except perhaps Raul and Lily knew what it was: an actual bar of what appeared to be pure gold.  She’d dropped it in the middle of the dining table, and no one had touched it.  Though she’d immediately been surrounded with frantic questions, she gave no answers; just headed for her room, unloaded her stuff there, and went to sleep for twelve hours straight.

The next day was no less frustrating.  Samara had simply turned a deaf ear to all their demands to know where she’d been or what she’d been doing.  During the afternoon, she’d pulled Veronica aside and spoken with her alone; nobody knew what they’d talked about, but Veronica had emerged from the conversation looking very, very grim.  That night, in the privacy of her bedroom, Samara and Boone had had a spectacular blow-out: a huge shouting match that had echoed throughout the entire suite; it had been so loud that Arcade, who had retreated into the kitchen across the hall, could hear every word.  It had ended with Samara’s door slamming so hard it shook the walls as Boone had grabbed his things and stormed out, moving to the couch in the game room. He’d slept out there for a week or so, until he and Samara had seemed to come to some sort of understanding and he’d moved back into her bed.  It didn’t matter; the damage had been done.  The peace in the Lucky 38 had been shattered.

Samara had pulled the same stunt twice more since then, each time telling no one where she was going, each time returning after several weeks looking strung-out, wasted, and with armfuls of strange loot.   Each time, the day after her return was marked with clamorous inquiries to which she made no answer, and a huge fight with Boone, which ended with the sniper sleeping on the couch for a few days until they made it up.  But each time, their reconciliations seemed more and more fragile; the tension between them was palpable, and Boone’s eyes would follow her about the suite as if--

_As if,_ Arcade thought, _he fears he will lose her._ It was the same way Veronica watched her.

For his part, Arcade was rapidly running out of patience with Samara’s antics.  Matters between the NCR and Legion were coming to a head; it was clear that fighting could break out any day now.  The Courier had been doing everything she could to tip the coming battle to the NCR’s side.  Okay, fine; Arcade would have _preferred_ that she support an independent New Vegas, but at least the NCR was better than the Legion.  The problem was, however, that in working to position the NCR as she had been, Samara had placed herself at the dead center of events.  She had made herself the keystone of the Mojave to such an extent that if the battle broke out while she was gone on one of her jaunts, Arcade was no longer certain the NCR could win.

Perhaps there was no really good time for the Courier to behave as Samara was doing; but now, with the battle looming and their fates entwined so closely with the NCR, her behavior was not just irresponsible, it was near-suicidally reckless.  Arcade _wanted_ to tell her that--but somehow, he hadn’t quite dared.  Now that she had finally brought it up, however, he could not let this opportunity pass.

“Where do you go when you go away?  We’ve all been wondering.”  _Heh.  That’s a polite way to put it._   “Wondering” did not even come close to capturing the dread and tension filling the suite every time Samara disappeared.

Her shape shrugged in the darkness.  “Different places.”  She was silent a moment, then added, “There are places all around the Mojave.  Most of them have stories.”

“Oh.”  Arcade digested that.  _Not very helpful._ After a moment, summoning his courage, he said, “You know, I’ve been meaning to talk to you about that for a while.  When you go away--“

“There’s nothing to talk about.”  Samara looked out over the lake.

“But you have to understand--“

She turned toward him, and he saw the gleam of her pale eyes even through the darkness.  “I said, _there’s nothing to talk about._ ”  The words fell like the slamming of an iron door.

_O-kay.  Message received._   He sat in silence for a while, considering how to proceed.  Eventually, hoping to keep the conversation going while he thought of a useful response, he asked, “Well, where _do_ you go?  Maybe I’ve been there.  I’ve traveled a bit myself, you know.”

“No, you wouldn’t know these places.  They’re very far away.”  She hesitated a moment, running her fingers over the metal surface of the dock, then continued. “The Sierra Madre.  The Big Empty.”  She drew a breath again, and a strange look came into her pale eyes.  “ _Zion._ ”

Arcade frowned, thinking.  The names sounded vaguely familiar:  bits of rumors passed from mouth to mouth over glimmering campfires at night, spoken of by old prospectors and caravaners, little more than legends of legends of legends.  _I once knew a man who knew a man who knew…._   “I’ve heard of those places,” he admitted, “but not much more than names.”

“Most people haven’t even heard _that_.  I hadn’t, before I went there.”

“Hm.”  Arcade was silent again, thinking.  “So….tell me about them.”

Samara glanced at him sidelong.  “What?”

“These strange places you visited.  What are they like?  These are places nobody has ever seen before, Samara,” he prodded.  “One could argue that you have a _responsibility_ to share knowledge about them.  Let’s hear it.”

She glanced at him again.  The edge of her mouth lifted, and Arcade blinked, rather surprised; it was a _smile._   He’d rarely seen that from her.  _She and Boone are a pair that way,_ he thought glumly.  She leaned back against an upright, stretching her feet out in front of her.  For a moment, he still thought she would not answer, and that he would have to pry further; but at last she said, “What do you want to hear about first?”

He thought for a moment.  “Begin at the beginning,” he replied, “and when you come to the end…stop.”

“’Begin at the beginning.’  Heh.  I think you mean, _begin again._ ”  That half-smile curled her mouth again, there and then gone, like a brief flash of heat lightning.  “ _That_ would be the Sierra Madre.”

That, indeed, was where she began.    She spoke, her voice at first halting and hesitant, of the strange radio signal she had picked up on her Pip-Boy; how she had followed it to an abandoned Brotherhood of Steel bunker, what had happened when she had descended into the depths.  She went on to tell how she had awakened in the abandoned city, almost in perfect order except for the Cloud, uninhabited except for the Ghost People who roamed its streets and the true ghosts, the holograms who staffed the Sierra Madre Casino.  As she spoke, she grew more animated, relating the tales of Dog and God, of Dominic, of Christine and Father Elijah, and the long-ago heist that had been planned in the days before the war.  Arcade drew in his breath as Samara spoke of Christine, suddenly understanding the reason for Veronica’s behavior when Samara had returned from her first trip. 

“I had no idea,” he said quietly.  “I had always thought Veronica’s first love was dead.”

“She almost was,” Samara replied, her voice just as low.  “She had been through a lot by the time I met her….I think it would have killed a lesser person.”

“What do you mean?”

Samara did not answer, simply looking out across the lake.  Arcade waited a moment, but she said nothing else.  A light breeze riffled the surface of the water.

Finally, he prodded her again. “You mentioned Zion?  I think I’ve heard of it.   It’s in what used to be Utah, right?”

“Yeah.”  Samara nodded.  “It--I guess it was spared during the war.  The bombs didn’t fall there.  It’s pretty much untouched.”  She drew a breath.  “It’s.... _Beautiful._ ”  The word was a long, drawn-out sigh.  Arcade shifted his weight, leaning back on his hands.

“Tell me,” he said.

Samara told him, her voice coming to him out of the night, softly drifting on the winds.  He listened as she described, in almost reverent tones, the pure unspoiled wilderness: the beauty of the red bluffs and rock formations, folding the land into innumerable chasms and canyons; the many streams of the silver-blue, braided river, shallow enough to wade throughout long stretches, that wove its way in and among the towering piles of red and pink and cream stones; the dark, whispering stands of green pines looking down from the hillsides and promontories; the herds of bighorns, wandering among the slopes.  “The sky was so close you could almost touch it, and the _stars…._   I don’t think I’ve ever seen more stars in my life.  More than--“  She waved one hand at the sky above them.  “It would take your breath away…. It _rained_ there.  I don’t--I can’t remember of course, but I don’t think I’ve ever seen rain before…  But _there_ …” 

Arcade _had_ seen rain before, but not often.  He held his peace, continuing to listen as she went on to describe the incredible richness and fertility of the land, the honey mesquite trees, the banana yucca plants, the Nevada agave.  “There were more broc flowers than I’d ever seen in my life, and so many xander roots I couldn’t carry them all.  Prickly pears, barrel cactus…I’d never seen anything like it.” 

“It sounds very beautiful,” Arcade murmured, watching her.  Samara nodded, but a shadow fell over her face.

“They were there too,” she said after a moment.

“’They?’”  But, looking at the stony cast to her features, Arcade suspected he already knew.

“The _Legion.”_   Her voice turned icy.

Arcade nodded.  Privately was less than surprised; he had seen and heard, from his time with the Followers, how the Legion’s tendrils were spreading outward from the Mojave.  _Like an illness,_ he thought grimly.   He continued to listen, absorbing the information, as she spoke of the tribes who lived there, the Dead Horses and the Sorrows, and their enemy the White-Legs tribe; of Daniel and of the Burned Man. 

“So _that’s_ what happened to Joshua Graham,” he said.  “I had wondered.”

“Yeah.  I would never have thought to find him there.”  Samara spoke of the growing conflict between the Dead Horses and the Sorrows on one side, and the Legion-backed White Legs on the other; the different paths that Joshua Graham and Daniel had advocated; how she had been drawn in, almost against her will, and in the end had been instrumental in helping Daniel to implement his solution, leading the tribes to flee Zion Canyon.

He gave her a curious look.  “Really.  I’m surprised to hear that coming from you, given how much you hate the Legion--fully justified, I might add,” he said quickly as Samara began to look thunderous, “I would have thought you’d have counseled the tribes to stand their ground--to try and drive out or eliminate the White Legs.”

He studied her for her reaction.  Samara simply shrugged, her fingers running over the metal joints of the deck; her eyes were cast down.  Arcade sensed there was more she wanted to say, but that she was searching to find the right way in which to say it.  At last, she brought out slowly, “They couldn’t fight.”

He frowned.  “They didn’t have weapons?”

“No, it wasn’t that….  They had weapons--good ones, it was just…. They couldn’t--“  She shifted restlessly, chewing her lower lip.  “They weren’t like this.  It wasn’t like this.”  Samara gestured at the encompassing night, reaching out to take in the whole Mojave.   She forced herself on, visibly struggling to verbalize her thoughts.  “They--they didn’t know.  What the Legion was.  What it could do.  The--the White Legs were just the tip of the iceberg.  Joshua Graham, Daniel-- _they_ knew, because they’d seen it, they’d lived it.  They were trying to protect the tribes, but it was…  They were like _children._ ”  Her voice vibrated with something close to anguish. “They were so--so _innocent._   They couldn’t fight, they couldn’t have won if they’d tried, and if they _had,_ it….  It would have destroyed them.  So…”  She shrugged again.  “I sent them away.”

“I see.”  Arcade thought of asking Samara if she’d ever heard of Rousseau, or the concept of the Noble Savage, but held his peace; he could see the distress in her face.  This was not the time for a philosophical debate.   _And besides, well…._ He’d done some work with tribal societies himself, during his time with the Followers of the Apocalypse.  What Samara had said about innocence was not without a grain of truth; he’d seen the same thing in some of the more isolated tribal populations he’d served.  When societies were small, small enough that everyone knew everyone else, it was harder to engage in the sort of depersonalization that would allow crimes like those of the Legion--harder to get one’s mind around that level of cruelty, and on such a scale. 

_Not impossible, though._   He suspected that if Samara had actually had a chance to see those tribes in full-on war mode, she might have been in for a surprise. _Still, this isn’t the time._ “Where did you send them?” he asked her.

“The Grand Staircase, wherever _that_ is.”  Arcade shook his head; he hadn’t heard of it.  “ _I_ don’t know where it is,” Samara continued.  “All I know is, Daniel asked me to recover a map for him so he could lead them there.  I _had_ to,” she repeated, as if trying to convince herself.  “They couldn’t have handled the Legion, it was better this way--“

“Hey, relax,” Arcade interjected.  “For what it’s worth, I think you did the right thing.”

Samara looked at him sharply.  Her pale eyes gleamed in the darkness. “You--you _do?_ ”

“Sure.”  He shrugged, stretching his legs out before him and crossing his ankles. “I’ve seen tribal wars before.  They can get _really_ nasty, much more than you’d think.  And with the Legion in the mix, even as no more than a backer for these White Horses--“

“White-Legs,” Samara corrected.

“White-Legs,” he acknowledged.  “It would have been enough to kick everything up a notch--or several.  Getting everyone out of there was the right call.  At the _very_ least, it almost certainly saved lives.”

He saw her massively armored shoulders shrug. “They can’t fight the Legion,” she repeated.  “They don’t understand.  Not like….”  She trailed off, but Arcade could hear what she didn’t say.  _Not like me._   He wondered how well _she_ understood the Legion.  _As well as she thinks she does, I hope.  For all our sakes._

Again, there was silence for a time; the fluttering of wings above them signified the nocturnal activities of bats on the prowl.    Samara summoned ED-E with a wave of her hand, and ED-E came; she rummaged in the modified Eyebot’s storage compartment and drew out a bottle of Sunset Sarsaparilla, which she tossed to Arcade.  Arcade, startled, caught it and looked at Samara in surprise; normally this sort of generosity was not characteristic of her.  She retrieved a second Sarsaparilla and returned his glance, almost shyly, before settling back down against the upright.  She opened her drink with the edge of her combat knife and, when she saw Arcade struggling, wordlessly took his bottle and did the same.

“Thanks,” Arcade said, studying her closely as he retrieved his drink.

Samara shrugged again and tipped her head back, looking up at the stars.  Trying to revive the conversation, Arcade asked, “Where’s that other place you went to--you called it the Big Empty?  I’ve heard of it, but nothing beyond a name.”

“Yeah.”  Samara gave that small smile again; it was as if speaking of Zion had warmed her, opened something inside her that she usually kept barred to everyone… _well, everyone but Boone.  Perhaps._   She raised one knee and rested her arm on it.  “It’s not actually called the Big Empty; that’s just how people heard it.  The real name for the place is the Big _M-T--_ “  she pronounced it carefully so that Arcade could hear the difference “--and it’s short for--“

“ _Big Mountain._ ”  A thrill went down his spine and he felt himself sit up sharply.  “Of _course._   The Big Mountain Research and Development Center.  You mean all this time it was--Every time people were talking about the Big Empty they meant-- “  Bits and pieces he had heard throughout the years suddenly fell into place with a click, and he wanted to kick himself for being so obtuse.  _How could I not have guessed--?_

In his defense, he allowed, he hadn’t thought of Big Mountain in many years, not since he had left his childhood behind; and he’d only heard mention of the Big Empty perhaps a handful of times in his life.  _But still…._   “You actually _went_ there?” he burst out, before he could stop himself.  “ _Wow._   The En--I mean, the people I--“  He cleared his throat, trying to measure his words through his sudden excitement.  “That is, some--some people I used to know a long time ago would have practically _killed_ for a chance to visit there.  They said it was the biggest think tank ever developed before the war, that some of the greatest minds in the country were gathered there and basically given free rein to do whatever they wanted.  They--the people I knew made it sound like some kind of magic place, almost, like a treasure chest of wonders--what I wouldn’t _give_ for a chance to see it myself--“  Abruptly, Arcade realized he was very close to babbling, and that was dangerous…. _perhaps especially on this subject._   Still, it was hard; the tales that his elders had told of the Big Mountain facility had been some of his favorite childhood stories.  _The things they could do there…._   He gave himself a rough mental shake, trying hard to get himself under control.  “That is…I’m impressed you were able to visit it.  I really wish I could have seen it as well.”  In the back of his mind, the thought flickered that now he had another reason to be jealous of Samara.

She glanced down.  “The reality probably doesn’t match the stories.”

“Does it ever?” he asked.  His mouth twisted in a wry grin.  “ _Sic semper erat._   Still…I’d very much like to hear about it.”

Samara picked up the cap to her Sunset Sarsaparilla bottle, examined it, then drew back and threw it side-arm, skipping it over the surface of the lake.  “You may be sorry you did.”  She took a long swallow from the Sarsaparilla bottle and set it down. 

Then, she told him how she had discovered the downed satellite at the Mojave drive-in, and how she had been whisked away via a transportation beam; her arrival in the Sink, and what she had found, and--

“Wait.  Wait, they--“  Arcade held up his hand.  “They did _what_ to you?”  He shook his head.  “No.  That _can’t_ be right.  You must have misunderstood--“

“I did not,” Samara said, her voice deathly quiet.  “I _saw_ them.  I saw my own brain, heart and spine, floating suspended in tanks, I--“  She pressed one hand to her head.  “I had a conversation with my _own brain--_ I had to try and convince it to go back in my head.  Do you have any idea how _weird_ that is?”

He shook his head again.  “No.  I don’t believe that _._ It’s just too bizarre.  You must have--I don’t know, hallucinated or something; maybe as a side effect of the teleportation process.If you--“

He broke off in surprise as Samara reached up and broke the seals on her armor.  “What are you doing?”

She didn’t answer, just continued to extricate herself from the bulky Power Armor.  When she had squirmed all the way out of it, and was clad only in the under-armor jumpsuit, she gestured to herself.  “Listen.”

“What?”

“You’ve got that stethoscope.  _Listen._ ”   

Uncertainly, Arcade retrieved his stethoscope from inside his own Combat Armor and carefully approached her.  Her pale eyes held his, uncompromising. He placed the instrument against her chest…then jerked away. 

_What the hell--?_

Where the healthy, normal sound of a beating heart should be, there was instead a myriad of clickings, grindings and whirrings, the sounds of something unnatural--something mechanical ticking away in her chest.  A chill ran through him.  _Christ…_

“Now what do you think?” Samara asked, raising one brow.

_“Audio, sed non credo.”_   He rubbed at his eyes.  “I--well, no, I _don’t_  apologize for not believing you, because no one _could_ have believed it.  Jesus.”

“And you wonder why I don’t tell you all about where I go.”  It was the first time she had ever acknowledged the distress her trips caused them; Arcade glanced at her, startled, but her face revealed nothing.  “And that wasn’t the end of it either.  Listen,” she told him again. 

The stars slowly moved in their grand courses across the heavens as she told about the Big Empty--the “think tanks” and their battle against Dr. Mobius; the ruined research facilities, long since abandoned except for populations of mindless aggressive lobotomites; the Y-17 trauma override harnesses, still active after two hundred years, shells of animate, semi-sentient machinery wrapped around the skeletal remains of their original wearers.  She told about the village of feral ghouls, all that was left of the Chinese prisoners-of-war whom the researchers had used for experimentation.  Arcade listened, at a loss for words, as she spoke of Dr. Mobius, that brilliant and tragic figure, who had taken it upon himself to lock his colleagues into their endless, timeless, solipsistic loops rather than run the risk that their amorality might loose itself upon the world; how he had done the same to himself out of disgust at his own actions; how he had set himself up as an arch-enemy to turn all his former friends’ attentions on himself as a final means of protecting the outside world.  _I never thought…in all the stories, I never imagined…_   He was at a loss for words as Samara spoke again of Christine: how the Knight of the Brotherhood of Steel had trailed Father Elijah to the Big Empty; had been captured by the security bots there and subjected to horrible experiments before she was able to escape. 

“Compared to her….I was lucky,” Samara said.  “I mean…what happened to me was more drastic, but it wasn’t as damaging.  If that makes sense.  In the end, I came out of it ahead…for Christine, I guess, there was nothing.  There was no upside for her.”

“Jesus,” Arcade said again.  He scrubbed his mouth with the back of one hand.  “Are you going to tell Veronica?”

“Why?” Samara shrugged.  Out of the Power Armor, she looked much less imposing; her shoulders seemed thin and somehow frail, though he knew how tough and strong she was.  “What good would it do?  I already told her about meeting Christine at the Sierra Madre, and everything I learned from her there; telling Veronica what happened to her _before_ the Sierra Madre wouldn’t do anything but hurt her more.”  She took another gulp of her Sunset Sarsaparilla.  Arcade tried to imitate her, then put the bottle back down as his stomach lurched.

“I’m sorry, Samara,” he said at last. “I didn’t know--I mean, Christ, when I was a kid in the En-- When I was a kid, I used to dream about seeing the facility. I had the idea that it was almost this fairy-tale place-- I never thought--“

Her brow furrowed. “Why are _you_ sorry?” she asked.   “None of what happened was your fault.” And as Arcade fumbled for a response, she shrugged again.  “It wasn’t that bad.  I may have made it sound worse than it was.  Most of all I just found it….”  She paused for a moment, searching.  “Sad,” she said at last.

“Sad?”

“Tragic.  It’s not called the Big Empty for no reason….It’s just this--this vast, barren _crater,_ with crevices everywhere…there’s hardly _any_ natural life there….”  Haltingly, struggling to find the words, she described the crumbling remains of laboratories slowly running down and decaying into silent oblivion; the timeless, oblivious stasis of the Think Tanks, stripped of all knowledge of past or future or even the world beyond the edge of the radar fence, capable of nothing more than carrying on their endless, pointless struggle against Dr. Mobius-- _War without end, amen…._  

“Those scientists who worked there before the war…they did some great things.  Horrible things, too,” she said, her eyes haunted. “But now, it’s all gone.  The horror, the greatness--all of it.  All that’s left is…. Well, I guess you could call it a…a memory, maybe.  Or perhaps a graveyard.  That might be a better word: a graveyard, filled with ghosts, who…who just roam, without meaning or purpose.  That’s what gets me the most,” she said, gesturing vaguely.  “The _purposelessness_ of it.  There’s--what’s that expression you used once--there’s no hand to the tiller anymore; the whole thing will just go on forever, slowly disintegrating, until it falls into dust.”

“Based on what you’ve told me, that sounds like a blessing,” Arcade said, as a shiver ran down his spine.

Samara looked away from him.  “Maybe.  But that doesn’t mean it’s not also a tragedy.  What you said at first was right, too,” she said, giving him another sidelong glance.  “There were…wonders…there.  Terrible things…but wonders all the same.”

Arcade could think of nothing to say in reply.  The night’s darkness lay heavily between them.  They sat together on the raft, side by side, as the moon began to climb into the sky above.  Insects hummed in the night air--Arcade slapped at his arm, too late--and beyond them in the lake, fish splashed, breaking the surface and submerging again.  For no reason he could discern, Arcade realized he was filled with a profound, almost overwhelming melancholy. 

Beside him, Samara shifted.  “Be…” She stuttered a bit.  “Be--be not--“

“What did you say?

She seemed puzzled for a second, as if she were retrieving something from some ancient, long-buried crypt of memory. Then, hesitantly, she spoke.

“Be not afeared, the isle--“

“--is full of noises,” Arcade finished with her.  He looked over at her in surprise.

“Yeah.  Yeah,” she said, seeming pleased; she offered another small smile.  He thought that this was the most he had ever seen her smile.  Together, they went on, their voices joining in the evening air.

“ _Sounds and sweet airs, that give delight and hurt not._  
Sometimes a thousand twangling instruments  
Will hum about mine ears, and sometimes voices  
That if I had then waked after long sleep  
Would make me sleep again, and then, in dreaming,  
The clouds, methought, would open and show riches  
Ready to drop upon me, that when I waked,  
I cried to dream again.”

The last line died to silence.  Samara tossed a small stone into the lake, where it fell with a plunk.  Arcade sat, chewing over what had just happened.

“I didn’t know you knew any Shakespeare,” he said at length.

“That’s _Shakespeare?_ ”  Samara looked as surprised as he felt.

“Sure.  _The Tempest,_ Act III, scene ii.  Caliban says it. It’s considered one of the most beautiful and evocative passages in the English language.”  He paused. “Where did you learn it?”

Samara’s face creased in thought.  “I _don’t know!_ ”  She smashed one fist down on the corrugated decking in frustration.

Arcade held up his hands.  “Never mind. Forget I said anything.”

He tried again with his Sunset Sarsaparilla and this time, though his stomach was still queasy, found he could handle it.  Samara simply continued to drink from hers, watching the clouds cross the night sky.

“I’m going away again.”

Arcade nearly choked on the sarsaparilla he’d just drunk; he looked over at her sharply.  “What?  _When?”_

“Soon.  A day, maybe two.”

“For how long?” 

He saw her shoulders twitch.  “Dunno.  Could be a few weeks.  A couple months, maybe. No way to tell right now.”  She stared across the lake, as if looking at something he could not see.

He bit down hard on his first three responses, though he practically ached to give her a piece of his mind.  After a moment or two, taking deep breaths and trying to get himself under control, he ventured carefully, “Where are you going?”

“Far away.  A place called the Great Divide.”

“I see,” he said, though he didn’t, not at all.  “May I ask _why?_ ”  He was unable to completely keep the  hostility out of his voice.

Samara exhaled, running one hand through her hair.  “It’s a long story.”

“There’s plenty of time.  And, I think we have the right to know,” he said, even more sharply than before.  “Aren’t we your _friends,_ Samara?”  _If she even **has** any friends, _ he thought grimly.

“It’s not your business,” she said, her pale eyes glimmering; then she sighed again.  Her shoulders slumped.  “It’s something I’ve _got_ to do.”

“What do you mean, it’s something you’ve _got_ to do?”

Samara hesitated for a long moment, clearly considering how much to tell him. “You know there was a Courier before me, right?” she said.  “Actually, there were _five_ other Couriers.  I was the sixth and last.”

Arcade frowned. “No, but I don’t--“  She motioned to silence him, and unwillingly, he held his tongue.

“Five other Couriers before me,” she continued, “and all of them ended up dead.  But there was one other: a man named Ulysses.”  She ran her hands over her face.  “Ulysses--there’s something, I don’t know, something between us.  I _don’t know what it is._ ”  Her voice crackled with frustration.  “I’ve been finding traces of him all over the Wasteland.  He was almost hired to carry the Platinum Chip before me, but when he saw that I was next on the list, he apparently passed on the mission--he specifically wanted _me_ to have it. He left me graffiti taunting me at the Canyon Wreckage…when I got to Zion, Joshua Graham told me he’d heard of Ulysses and that he had something to do with me…and then when I was in the Big Empty--“

Her words cut off.  All at once, her entire body was tense and shaking.  Her fists were knotted, and as she raised her head to look at him, Arcade actually recoiled from her expression; her face was set in a mask of rage, and her pale eyes seemed to _glow_ with a terrifying white light.  He had seen that light before, twice, and it usually presaged tremendous destruction.

“ _He was there before me._ ”  She ground the words out through her teeth.   “It was he who rescued Christine, who nursed her back to health--he left messages aimed at me, at _me,_ telling me to find him at the Great Divide.  He _knows,_ don’t you see?”  It was almost a growl.  Samara was actually trembling with fury.  “He knows _everything._ About my past, about why I took the job in the first place--“  Her eyes were searing into him.  “I’m going to find him, all right.   You better believe it.  And _when I do_ \--“  Her fists opened and snapped shut on empty air, so tight that her knuckles threatened to burst through the skin. 

She closed her eyes and inhaled deeply, twice, three times; then the fury was gone as if it had never been.  She opened her eyes again and looked at him. “I’m going to get some answers,” she said, shrugging.  

Arcade clenched his jaw, biting back his words almost physically.  He was bursting with the desire to tell Samara exactly what he thought, but at the same time, he was unnerved by the flash of incandescent rage she had just shown.  After a long moment he settled for, “The rest of the suite isn’t going to like it.”

“Maybe not,” Samara allowed.  “But it doesn’t matter.  I’m going anyway.”

“At the _very_ least you should tell them before you go,” he said, feeling an edge creep into his voice.   “It’s just the right thing to do.”

“We’ll see.”

“Samara, you should--“

“I said _we’ll see,_ ” she said, looking at him with those pale eyes.  Arcade cut himself off, though he was inwardly fuming.   He leaned back against an upright and looked up at the moon, nursing his resentment; beyond him, Samara had pulled out a tool and was picking away at the jumbled heap of her Powered Armor, fine-tuning it, making the myriad minor adjustments necessary to keep such a complex system in top form.  Dark shapes flitted across the sky above, crossing the moon and pinpoint lights of the stars. 

After a time, Samara spoke again, low and reverent.

_“Now Chil the Kite brings home the night_  
That Mang the bat sets free.  
The herd is shut in byre and hut  
For loosed till dawn are We.  
This is the hour of pride and power  
Talon and tusk and claw  
O hear the call!--Good hunting, all  
That keep the Jungle Law….”

Her words died away.  Arcade glanced over at her.  His mouth twisted.  “Kipling now?”

Samara only shook her head slowly.  She got to her feet.

“We’d better turn in,” she said, looking down at him.  “I want to get an early start tomorrow.  No need to keep a watch; ED-E will do it for us.  Come on.”

Arcade threw his empty Sunset Sarsaparilla bottle into the lake with more force than strictly necessary.  His jaw tightened as he watched it splash and sink out of sight, then with a sigh, he climbed to his feet as well.  “Lay on, MacDuff.”

_“What?”_

“Never mind,” he said sourly.  “Lead the way.”

[*]

They reached the Las Vegas strip by early afternoon the following day.  Arcade followed Samara into her room and stood still while she unloaded him; he had often thought that she had a tendency to treat her companions as essentially speech-capable pack Brahmin.  _Instrumenta vocales?_ he mused bleakly.  As she finished with him and turned to ED-E, pulling open the bot’s storage compartment, he made some excuse and withdrew, closing the door behind him.

After taking a moment to divest himself of his armor, he found Veronica and Raul in the lobby, huddled over the Gatling Laser Samara had brought back on one of her recent trips. “Meeting,” he told them in an undertone.  “In the Game Room.  I need to talk to you guys.”

Veronica looked up anxiously.  “What’s going on?”

“I want to tell everyone at once.  Where’s everybody else?”

The old ghoul straightened laboriously, then put his hands to the small of his back; when he stretched, it gave an audible _crack_.  He groaned. “I think Boone and Cass are in there already, testing Cass’s latest batch of moonshine.  Damn, that stuff kicks like a mule,” he added ruefully.  “Lily’s in the guest bedroom.  She’s been knitting in there all day.”

Arcade nodded.  When he pushed open the door to the bedroom, Lily was indeed in there knitting, working on a yellow sweater with brown stripes this time. She looked up at him as he dumped his armor at the foot of the bed.

“Ah, there you are, dearie!  And just in time, too!  Come here, I need to measure you for your sweater,” she proclaimed, holding up her needles.

Despite it all, Arcade couldn’t resist a smile. “Maybe later, Lily.  Can you come into the Game Room for a few minutes? I need to talk to everyone about something.”

 Lily regarded him shrewdly behind her glasses, then got up from the bed.  It creaked as her tremendous bulk rose off it.  “It has to do with Samara, doesn’t it, angel?” she asked, bundling her needles and yarn under her arm.  “Well, let’s go, darling.”  She followed him out of the bedroom and across the lobby into the game room.

Everyone was waiting for him when he got there; Boone and Cass were along the back wall, with Cass’s makeshift moonshine still, while Veronica was pacing and Raul had settled on the couch.  As Lily moved to take a seat beside him, Veronica asked anxiously, “What is it?  What’s going on?”

Arcade glanced out into the lobby; Samara’s door was still closed.  Just to be on the safe side, he closed the game room’s door as well.  He drew a breath.  _Might as well dive in._

“Samara’s going away again.”

There was a moment of silence as everyone stared at him in shock; then the room broke out into a furious hail of protest.

“What? _Why?_ ” Veronica burst out desperately.

“ _Now?_ ” Cass demanded.  “The Mojave’s buzzing like a Cazador nest--the whole thing’s going to break loose any day now--and she chooses _now_ to skip town?”

Boone cursed viciously and slammed a fist against the wall. 

“I dunno, if the Boss thinks she needs to go, well, maybe we should at least ask her--“

“Aww, my little pumpkin really shouldn’t be leaving home like this--“

The babble in the room grew louder and louder, until Arcade held up his hands.  “That’s _enough!_ ” he almost shouted.  “I--Look, guys, I don’t know much more than you.  She says she has to go someplace west, to the Great Divide--that she’s following one of the previous couriers--“

“Ulysses, I’ll bet,” Veronica said bitterly.  “I was with her when she found that stupid graffiti at the Canyon Wreckage.  I wish we’d never seen it.”

“All I know is what she told me, okay?” he said, running his eyes over the haggard, expectant faces of the rest of Samara’s suite.  “And she didn’t tell me very much.  If you want to know anything more, you’ll have to ask Samara herself, but--“

“Ask me what?”

Arcade actually flinched.  The voice came from the door to the game room; Samara was standing there, still in her Powered Armor, watching them.  All attention immediately snapped onto her; but it was Veronica who spoke first.

“You’re leaving?  _Again?”_ she demanded, her voice quavering a bit.

Samara’s eyes fell on Arcade like weight.  _“You told them.”_

He folded his arms.  “They had every right to know.”

Her expression chilled; he could see that she would not forget this, nor easily forgive.  Dismissing him, she addressed the others.   “That’s right.  I’m leaving.  As soon as possible.”

Veronica looked like she was about to protest again, and Cass started to say something, but both of them fell silent as Boone stepped forward, facing Samara directly.  There was a notable shift in the atmosphere, as if the rising tension had snapped into focus around the pair.

“You weren’t going to tell us?” His voice was dangerously quiet.

“You didn’t need to know,” Samara answered immediately, iron-hard.

“’ _Didn’t need to know.’_ ”  The danger in Boone’s voice deepened.  Arcade felt himself swallow nervously. “How can you _possibly_ say that?” the sniper forced out between his teeth. 

“Easy.  It’s true.”

“And yet you’ll tell _him._ ”  Boone threw out one hand to Arcade, who found himself taking an involuntary step back.  “You’ll tell _him_ and not-- _“_   He broke off, but the unspoken codicil hung in the air.  _And not me?_

Samara glanced at Arcade again. “Apparently, that was a mistake.”  Her eyes glinted.  “I’m leaving.  Deal with it.”  She turned her back on them, heading out of the room.

“ _How **dare** you?!”_   Boone crossed the room in three strides.  He reached out and grabbed her by the arm.  The servos in Samara’s armor whined as she yanked free, turning to face him. 

_“Don’t,”_ she said flatly.

Boone took a step back, blinking.  “Samara--I didn’t--” He broke off.  “Can’t you at least tell us _why?_ ”

She nodded to Arcade.  “I told _him_ why already.  Ask him if you want.”

“What he said made _no damn sense!_ ” Boone shouted.  “You _have_ to go after some Courier somewhere?  What the hell _is_ that?”

Samara shrugged now, her heavily armored shoulders lifting.  “I just have to.  I don’t expect you to understand.” She paused. “I guess you could call it destiny.”

“ _What the hell?!_ ”  Boone raged.  “Samara, you can’t keep doing this--You _can’t_ keep going off on your own--For Christ’s sake, Samara!” he shouted.  “This time at least take me _with_ you!”

His words rang off the walls, echoing with raw emotion.  Arcade quickly glanced around the rest of the suite: Veronica’s eyes were wide and she was biting her lower lip, Raul stood back, shaking his head slightly, while Cass was scowling as if in support of Boone.  Lily had lowered her huge bulk onto the sofa and was knitting placidly, as if nothing was out of the ordinary; but as he looked at her, the old Nightkin lowered her sunglasses and met his eyes with a surprisingly knowing expression.   All eyes were on Samara, waiting for the Courier to answer.

Samara looked at Boone for a moment, then turned her back.  “I can’t,” came from over her shoulder.

The sniper’s hands clenched into fists.  _“What?_ ”

“Where I am going….you cannot follow.”

“Aw, that’s _bullshit_ and you _know it!_ ” Boone raged.  “This ‘destiny’ stuff is _shit_ \--take it from me, from someone who knows.  What _is_ it, Samara?!” he demanded.  “Is it a deathwish?  Is _that_ what you’ve got?  Samara, _why…?_ ”

The word hung there, vibrating keenly in the air, almost visible.  Arcade realized he wasn’t breathing. 

Samara turned back and looked at Boone again.  Her face was closed and unrevealing.  “I could never make you understand.”

She turned away again.  Boone stood there for a moment in a circle of stillness, as her words sank in; then he exploded in fury.  He stormed after her, shouting, _raging_ at her that she was needlessly risking her life, that she was dumber than the dumbest dogshit green recruit he’d ever seen, that she’d better not come crying to him when she was tortured and killed, hurling insults, imprecations, anything he could think of, simply trying to get her to _acknowledge_ him.  None of it made the slightest difference.  As Boone followed her about the suite, descending from insults to pleading, and then almost to _begging_ , Arcade had to look away.  It was painful to watch, and frightening as well--to see Boone, normally so icily reserved, lose control to such a degree.

Finally, at his wits’ end, with a brightness around his eyes that might have betokened tears in anyone else, Boone threw at her, “I won’t be here when you get back, Samara.”

“Your choice.”  Samara disappeared into her room and slammed the door.

Boone stood there for a moment, seething with stifled fury.  He turned, breathing hard and visibly a hairsbreadth from violence.  All the others were avoiding his gaze; Arcade stared intently at the wallpaper, tracing the pattern with his eyes.  With an explosive curse, Boone snatched up a glass pitcher and hurled it with all his strength against the wall.  A shower of gleaming fragments sprayed across the suite.  Actually trembling with rage, Boone whirled and stormed across the suite to the elevator, then stepped in; its doors closed over him, hiding him from view.  The elevator’s soft chime sounded absurdly out of place as it began its descent.

_Probably headed to the casino to do some serious drinking,_ Arcade knew.

Slowly, the others in the suite began to relax as the tension drained; Raul straightened from the wall where he had been leaning, Veronica drew a deep breath and some color came back into her face, and Cass gave a shaky laugh.  “Well, _that_ went well,” she announced to no one in particular, and took a gulp from her ever-present whiskey bottle.  Her comment startled unsteady laughter from Raul and Veronica, though Lily continued knitting serenely.  Arcade paid no heed, fixing his eyes on the elevator instead.

He wanted to go after Boone.  He _ached_ to go after Boone.  His mind spun him a powerful image: He would take the elevator down and find Boone, seated at the bar in the casino, drinking steadily. Arcade would take a seat beside him and pour himself a drink as well; he would say nothing at first, but merely sit there, providing silent companionship.  When he judged the time was right, he would speak: a quiet, nonaggressive overture that was scrupulously devoid of any hint of pressure, perhaps even something as simple as “If you want to talk, I’m here.”  Boone would shake himself; he would glance over at Arcade, and then, with some effort, bring himself to reply.  It would be short monosyllables at first, but under Arcade’s gentle, patient ministrations, Boone would slowly open up, revealing more and more of himself, until finally Arcade would be able to coax the normally reserved sniper into sharing his deepest pain.  Such a revelation would of course end with Boone breaking down into tears; at that point, Arcade would manage to summon his courage and, greatly daring, comfort the other man by taking him into his arms.  Boone would embrace him back, of course, and that would naturally lead to--

_Right.  In your dreams._ The _reality_ , he forcibly reminded himself, was that Boone had made it _crystal_ clear that Arcade’s attentions were not welcome in the slightest. _You’ve already made a fool out of yourself not just once but twice,_ he told himself caustically.  _Would you like to try for three times?  Given the state he’s in now, if you try **really** hard, maybe you can even get him to hit you._

But the pull of the fantasy was _so strong…._

He drew a deep breath, trying to silence the longing in his heart.  Then, instead of following Boone, he turned and crossed the suite to Samara’s room.

[*]

It was strange, Arcade had reflected on more than one occasion, how wherever he went, events tended to force him into the “peacemaker” role. It wasn’t a role that he cared for, or that came easily to him at all; it was difficult for him to curb his acerbic wit, and his natural reticence made it emotionally draining for him to force himself out of his shell enough to reach out.  Yet, paradoxically, it was that same reticence that allowed him to be _good_ at peacemaking; over the course of his life he had carefully cultivated the habit of drawing other people out and getting _them_ to talk about themselves, because it was a good way to keep them from asking questions about his past.  Now, he drew a breath to steel himself, then gave a token rap on Samara’s door, before swinging it open.

“Samara--“

“Get out.”  Samara didn’t even bother to look in his direction.  She had thrown open the lids to her two weapons trunks and the door to her armor closet, and weapons, weapon mods, ammo, armor and helmets were strewn all over the room.  It looked as if a tornado had hit it.  She appeared to be in the middle of jury-rigging repairs to various weapons; she continued with what she was doing without even bothering to look up.

Arcade folded his arms and planted his feet, setting himself.  A sharp, thorny sensation was prickling in his chest; wearily, he recognized it as _jealousy,_ and even more wearily, he pushed it aside _._   _Why does it always have to be me?_   “Just thought you’d like to know, Boone’s down in the bar drinking himself into insensibility,” he said.  “So if that was your aim, then mission accomplished.”

“I said, get out.”  Now Samara glanced at him, a quick dart with pale eyes like the cut of a knife.  Arcade flinched, then recovered.  He stepped into the room a bit more, letting the door swing shut behind him.  At least, he reflected, that would give them the _illusion_ of privacy.  _As if everyone else in the suite isn’t listening at the door right now anyway._

“You know, I’m curious, Samara.  Just for _laughs,_ could you tell me exactly what it is you’re trying to do by pissing everyone off like this?  What’s your _goal_?  Seriously, because me?   I’ve got nothing.”

 “It doesn’t have anything to do with them.”  She set aside the Multiplas Rifle she’d been fixing and picked up something that he recognized as a Tesla Cannon.  “None of this has anything to do with any of you.”

“How about the NCR, does it have anything to do with _them?_ ”  His long-standing anger with her was rising to the surface now, and Arcade wasn’t in a mood to push it aside, no matter how unwise it might be to vent it.  “You know, you want to support the NCR? Fine.  _Ex mea sententia,_ you’re backing the wrong side, but--“ he shrugged “--apparently you’re not asking me.  And at least you’re not supporting the Legion.  But if you’re going to support the NCR, then for God’s sake, at least _support_ _the NCR.”_

Samara still didn’t spare him so much as a look, never taking her eyes off the Tesla Cannon.  His anger rising, Arcade stepped closer.  “The whole situation is going to break loose any day now. You know that.  _Everyone_ does.  Hell, I was there when Chief Hanlon _told_ you that in so many words.  Legion fires are blazing across the Colorado River; the NCR is moving veteran rangers into the Mojave in record numbers-- _Si vis pacem, para bellum?_ Well, both the Legion and the NCR _parant bellum_ right this minute, but _pax_ doesn’t look like it’s going to break out any time soon.  And you’re choosing _now_ to go off on one of your little trips? Have you been paying attention at _all?_ Do you have _any_ idea how important you’ve become to the NCR?”   Still nothing.  It was like talking to a stone wall.  “For _Christ’s sake,_ Samara, _listen_ to me!”  He reached out and put his hand on the Tesla cannon, meaning to yank it away--

Samara’s head snapped up.  Her entire body tensed, and those pale eyes went white.  Her expression as she stared into him chilled his blood.  Immediately he released the cannon and stepped back, holding up his hands.

“I’m sorry,” he said at once.

She fixed him with that cold stare for a moment longer, then returned her attention to the cannon, seeming to dismiss him.  Arcade exhaled; he hadn’t realized he had been holding his breath.  He wet his lips.  “But Samara, for God’s sake--show a little circumspection, all right?” he pleaded.   “Don’t you--don’t you even _care_ if the Legion wins?”

“The Legion isn’t my fight.  Not anymore.”  She turned away from him.  Arcade felt his temper straining at its leash.  He clenched his fists.

“Not _anymore?_ You certainly seemed to think it was your fight not too long ago.”  He paused, feeling that thorny jealousy prickle again.  “’ _Kill Legion with me, Boone, I need you to kill Legion with me?’_ Remember that?  What’s happened since then?”

Now she did look back at him again, and her eyes narrowed. _Tactical error,_ Arcade realized.  _Goddamn it, Gannon…._

“You _heard_ that.”  Her voice chilled.

_No point denying it._   “Yes.  I did…overhear that.”  That wasn’t exactly what had happened, but Samara didn’t need to know. Quickly, he shifted the focus back. “So, I repeat--what’s changed?  The Legion’s _still_ here, they’re still as evil as ever, yet somehow they’re not your fight anymore?”

She regarded him.  Her eyes were like ice, sharp and gleaming…. _Like Boone’s,_ he thought.  Then she turned away again.  “This is more important.”

“No, actually, it isn’t,” he retorted.  Stepping closer, he slapped his hand on the bed, hoping to get her attention.  “Some message from some Courier before you--“

“ _Ulysses._ ”

_“From some Courier before you,_ ” he overrode her. “Somehow this is _so_ important that you’ll go running off to the middle of nowhere with the final showdown between the Legion and the NCR in the offing?”  His voice was rising still further, and he cursed inwardly; a shouting match between himself and Samara would almost certainly not help anything. _If **Boone** couldn’t convince her that way--_   “For _God’s sake,_ Samara!  Don’t you have _any_ sense of, of, of--“ he groped for a phrase “--of _civic virtue?_ ”

 The moment he said it, he groaned inwardly, hearing how lame it sounded.  Samara, unmoved, continued to arrange her gear. “The Legion will still be here when I come back.  I can kill them then.”

“And what if they win while you’re away?”

“Then there’ll be more of them and they’ll be easier to kill.”

“What if they kill the rest of us before then?  Do you even care?  Do you care about _us?_ ”

“You’ll be fine,” Samara said coolly.

Arcade ground his teeth, his anger flaring beyond the bounds of control.  He slammed his fists down on the bed, desperate to make her _see_. “Samara, how can you be so _irresponsible?”_    _All right, now I **am** shouting,_ some part of him observed distantly.  “The entire _fate of the Mojave_ is riding on _your shoulders!_ There are thousands -- maybe hundreds of thousands -- of lives hanging in the balance!  Doesn’t that matter to you _at all_?!” 

He broke off, realizing he was actually trembling, and drew a breath.  “I thought you were different, Courier,” he said bitterly.

She glanced at him with one eye.  “I’m not.” 

This time Arcade turned away from her, folding his arms tightly over his chest and staring at the wall, struggling to get himself under control.   Samara said no more.  He could hear her continuing to pack in the background.  The room was filled with a dissatisfied, angry silence.  _Stalemate_.

At long last, with a heavy sigh, he swung back to her and prepared to take up the fight again.  “All right.  I can’t talk you out of leaving.  You clearly have no respect for either your companions or the people of the Mojave, but I can’t change that.  If you want to go, then go.  I can’t stop you.  But for Christ’s sake, will you at least _take one of us with you_ this time?”

 “I already said--“ she tossed him another knifelike glance “--it’s not your business.”

“You _are_ our business.  You’re the whole _Mojave’s_ business.  You’ve _made_ yourself the Mojave’s business.” 

No effect.  Samara had returned to organizing her equipment and was completely ignoring him.  Again, he thought it was like talking to a wall.  He gave another frustrated sigh.  “Fine. It’s been established that you don’t care about us or the Mojave.  Do you at least care about _yourself?_ ” Grimly, Arcade reflected that he wasn’t even sure about the answer to _that_ question.

It got her attention, though; she stopped, looked over at him, and frowned.  “I don’t understand.”

_At last._   He wasted no time in elaborating.  “ _Take someone with you,_ Samara.  Another person means another gun.  Another pair of hands to carry equipment.  It means someone to watch your back, to apply stimpaks if you’re incapacitated, maybe someone to mount a rescue attempt if you get captured--ah, hell, in the worst-case scenario it means that at _least_ there’s someone to carry news of your death back to the Mojave if you don’t make it.  Samara, _please_ \--“

**_Mirabile visu,_** _it’s actually **working.**_ Samara cast her eyes down.  He could almost see the gears turning in her head as she considered his suggestion.  He held his breath, afraid to say anything that might influence her the wrong way…

At last, she gave a curt nod. “Fine.”  Half-lidded eyes glanced at him. “I’ll take Boone.”

_Boone…_   That thorny sensation pricked at Arcade again.  “I think that would be a bad idea,” he said before he could stop himself.

He was unprepared for the long, cool look Samara gave him.  “Oh really.  And why would that be?”

“You really think he’s a good choice after the fight you just had?”  It was a weak argument and he knew it; Arcade drew a steadying breath and carefully set about expanding on it.  “The two of you are too unstable and you’ve been fighting too much.  Routine missions around the Mojave are one thing, but for something like this--  You don’t know where you’re going; you don’t know what you’re going to find when you get there, what your enemies will be like, what you’re up against--  There are just too many unknowns.  You’d be better off taking someone steady, dependable. Someone whom you can count on to back you up without all the drama.”  He did actually believe this.

Samara said nothing for a long time.  She simply regarded him with that half-lidded, evaluative gaze.  Arcade had the uncomfortable feeling of being under a microscope; he shifted from foot to foot.

 “You’re jealous.”

The words struck him like a bucket of ice water.  _Shit._  He felt the blood rush to his face and his shoulders tightened.He couldn’t even _deny_ it; Samara’s expression told him that she knew.  _Does everyone?_

“All right, fine.”  He exhaled slowly.  “ _Arguendo,_ I admit it--I h-have feelings for Boone.”  He stumbled over the words a bit, then paused.  “There, I said it.  Surprise, surprise; once again, Arcade Gannon, showing his customary good judgement, falls for someone with whom he has no chance whatever.  Are you happy?  Have I humiliated myself enough for you yet?”  He folded his arms across his chest and raised his chin.  “But _whatever_ my feelings are,” he added stiffly, “they’re completely beside the point.  If you take him with you on this mission, it could lead to disaster.  I know it and you know it.  Samara, _listen_ \--“

Samara raised one brow.  “Well, then, who _should_ I take with me?  _You?_ ”

“If you like,” he replied evenly.  “Or take Veronica, or Cass.   Raul would be an excellent choice,” he said, and meant it; the old ghoul seemed to be completely unflappable.  “Hell, even Lily, if she’s on her meds.  _Anyone_ would be a better choice for this mission than Boone, if you--“

“You,” she said curtly, and turned her attention back to her packing.

“I’m sorry?” he floundered, caught off balance.

“ _You’re_ coming with me.  Any problem with that?”

“Wait.  Slow down….You want _me_ to--“ 

She looked at him with those gimlet eyes, and Arcade abruptly bit off the rest of what he was going to say.  Instead, he nodded.

 “All right.  Me.” _Not what I had in mind,_ he reflected, somewhat sourly.  He hadn’t had any intention of leaving the Mojave for a long period of time; he’d actually had plans to visit the Mormon Fort in the next couple of days, with a load of chems he’d been saving to donate to Julie Farkas.  Then again, Samara had never been known for being considerate of others’ plans. _Who knows.  Maybe it’s for the best….  And at least she’s not going alone this time.  There is that._

Samara eyed him.  She seemed somehow pleased, almost smug.  “Good.  Kit yourself out and get ready to go: I want to leave as soon as we possibly can.  Keep in mind-- if this is like the other missions I’ve been on, there’s a strong chance we may not be able to get back here until we’re done.”

He exhaled, still trying to mentally shift gears.  “Lots of food, water, ammo.  Got it.”

“Mostly ammo.  You can usually find food and water if you look hard enough.  Three days’ rations, no more; we have to save weight. Bring chems and stimpaks too; they’re light and good to have. And make sure your weapons and armor are in good condition.  You don’t know what chance you’ll have to repair them.”

“I always do.”  Arcade was scrupulous about equipment maintenance; he knew Samara knew this.  She nodded again.

“Good.  Go get what you need, and make it quick.  I want to be out of here in half an hour.”

“But we just got back--aren’t we going to sleep at some point, or--“

“We’ll sleep on the road.  I know a place.  I want to get moving as fast as possible.” 

“Aren’t you even going to take the time to say goodbye to everyone else?” he prodded her.  “Honestly, Samara, these people are your--your friends.”  _Are they?_   he wondered.

She glanced at him again.  “You say goodbye for me,” she said.  “Now _go._   And remember: we’re stepping out the door in thirty minutes.  No later.”

[*]

“She’s really going?  You couldn’t stop her?” Veronica demanded furiously.

“I _tried,_ okay?  If you think you can do better, be my guest.”  Arcade had left his harness in the second bedroom after Samara had unloaded him; now he struggled into it again, wincing as his body groaned in protest at resuming the heavy burden.  He fumbled with the dirt-stained straps, tightening  and adjusting the armor, then scooped up his combat helmet and fastened the strap under his chin.

“And she’s taking _you._ ”  Veronica paced in agitation, her own Powered Armor clanking and whining.  “She never even _asked_ if I wanted to go, or if--“

“Look, at least she’s bringing _some_ backup this time, all right?  Going with her wasn’t my first choice, I’ll tell you that.”  He tossed open the lid to the footlocker at the end of the bed and quickly began to equip himself from the litter within.  Energy cells and stimpaks in the right lower compartments of his armor for quick access… _two hundred energy cells should be enough, to start out with at least; if there’s a workbench there I can recycle some and it may be that there’s more ammo out there too._ His supply of stimpaks was more limited; he only had five of those.  Not that it mattered greatly; Samara had more stimpaks than God, and would probably be bringing most if not all of hers.  Still, if he were wounded in the middle of battle, it would be better if he had some of his own.  He took them all.  _Chems…chems…._   He studied the supply of chems he had been laying aside for Julie Farkas, debating mentally; then, with a muttered curse, selected five doses each of Jet, Med-X, Buff-out, and Hydra, sliding them into an upper shoulder compartment.  The Hydra in particular he hated to take, knowing how much good it could do in Julie’s hands; but he had no idea where they were going or what they were going to face once they got out there. _I might need it more than the Followers._

“You know, I was with her first?” Veronica dropped to the edge of the bed opposite from him, twisting her hands together.  “I was with her before anyone else but ED-E.  I met her at the 188 Trading Post.  We traveled together for weeks, just us two girls, exploring the Wastes.   She…she seemed so _different_ then,” Veronica said in bewilderment.  “She would laugh…and smile…and tell funny stories….we would trade jokes over the campfire at night, and….okay, I admit, I made a pass at her once and got turned down,” she confessed in a rush, “but somehow it still didn’t get weird afterward.  It felt so … so _right,_ traveling with her like that.  And now--   I just don’t understand what happened,” she said in a near whisper.  “I don’t understand _why_ she’s like this now--”

“Sorry to hear that, but I’ve got other things to worry about at the moment.”  _Food.  Water…._   Samara had said three days’ rations.  He gathered several bottles of Purified Water, hooking them into loops at his waist, then began sorting through the small pile of provisions he kept in the footlocker.  He preferred Pre-War food for rations if at all possible as it tended to be better preserved and last longer; now he extracted cans of pork and beans, boxes of Cram, and after some thought, a few bags of Trail Mix, tucking them away inside his armor.  “Samara wants to head out as soon as possible and she told me to be ready for her.”  He slammed the lid on the footlocker.  “I’ve got to go.”

As he moved to the door, Veronica called after him, “Arcade….”

He glanced back at her.  “What?”

“Watch over her.  Bring her back.”  Veronica’s youthful, puppyish face hardened; the steel in her showed through.  “If you don’t, you’ll have _me_ to answer to.”

He looked at her a moment longer.  “I’ll do what I can.”  He turned away from her once again and headed into the lobby.

[*]

Cass appeared to be dealing with Samara’s departure in her usual way; she accosted him, halfway sloshed and with whiskey bottle in hand, as soon as he stepped out of the guest bedroom.   “D’ju talk to her?” the red-headed caravan leader demanded.  “D’ju tell her what we thought? How she was endang--en’ger--hurting the NCR by doin this?”  Cass gave a rough laugh.  “Th’ Legion bastards ‘re _lovin_ this, I’ll tell ya.  Our own hero--NCR’s pride and joy--can’t be bothered to stick around for the big blow-out.  Not a good sign.  Th’ whole place is about to go up at any minute and the big girl herself doesn’t even--“

Arcade brushed her aside, barely sparing her a glance; there was no talking to Cass when she was like this.  The thought surfaced that Cass seemed to be halfway in the bottle more and more frequently of late, along with worry about what it portended; Arcade dismissed that as well.  He was not Cass’s doctor, and he had enough experience to know that even if he had been, there was realistically little he could have done to help her.  “Raul?” he called.  “Raul, are you there--?”

The old ghoul emerged from the kitchen.  “Yeah?”

“I need to ask you a favor.  Ordinarily I’d hate to bother you with it, but Cass is--well….” he gestured at her “--and Veronica is distraught at the moment; I don’t want to give her anything else to worry about.”

The ghoul studied him with those milky eyes.  “I’m listening.”

“In my footlocker there’s a stash of chems.  I’d been stockpiling them for a while--I meant to give them to Julie Farkas--you know, the Followers doctor at the Old Mormon Fort?  Can you see that she gets them?”

Raul’s rotted face distorted in a way that seemed to indicate he was trying to raise one brow.  “You askin me to do this: does this mean you’re not planning on coming back?” he asked shrewdly.

 “No,” Arcade protested. “Of course not.  It’s just…Julie needs the chems _now,_ and as long as they’re here, they might as well get where they’re going.”

The ghoul nodded.  “Sure.  I can do that.  ‘One good deed,’ and all that.”

“Thanks.  I appreciate it.”

Raul nodded again.  He studied Arcade a bit longer, then said, rather obliquely, “You know, I owe the Boss my life?”  At Arcade’s expression, he clarified, “When she found me.  I was stuck up on Black Mountain. That crazy supermutant bitch Tabitha was keepin me prisoner up there, in her, what did she call it, her ‘sovereign state of Utobitha’--“ At Arcade’s surprised look, Raul shrugged.  “Didn’t you ever listen to Black Mountain Radio?  It was worth more’n a few laughs.” 

His face grew long.  “Yeah…the _station_ was funny, but there wasn’t nothin funny about bein prisoner to a bunch of deranged supermutants.  Tabitha used to threaten to execute me every day.  I was able to keep, like, two steps ahead of her by pretending I couldn’t fix her buddy Rhonda, but it was only a matter of time.  If the Boss hadn’t come…yeah.  You all would be deprived of seein my handsome face.” He paused.   “She came all by herself, fightin all the way up Black Mountain, through all Tabitha’s crazy Nightkin and centaur guards, got to the building--and she managed to get me outta there.  She did it _without_ killing Tabitha and she fixed Rhonda in the bargain too.  I’d never seen that crazy bitch so happy.  It was like she didn’t care about anything else long as she had Rhonda back.”  He looked at Arcade solemnly.  “Only the Boss coulda done it.  I thought I was dead, till she came along.  She knows what she’s doin.  Or even if she doesn’t….”  He hesitated.  “Somehow she’s got a way of makin things come out right.  Trust the Boss.  It’ll work out in the long run.”

“I hope you’re right,” Arcade responded only.  Raul shrugged and stepped aside.

“Good luck out there,” he told Arcade.

“Thanks.  I’ll take all the help we can get.”

As he was about to step into the elevator, Lily emerged from the kitchen.  “D’awwww….Are you going somewhere, my little angel?”

“Me and Samara both, Lily,” he told her.  The old NIghtkin nodded.

“I thought she’d end up taking you along with her.  She always did like you best, you know.”  Somehow, Arcade really doubted that, though he said nothing.  “I made something for you--well, for you both--and it seems like now’s the time.  Grandma’s got a present for you!” Lily said, smiling, and extended what looked like a ball of yarn, tan striped with darker brown.  Arcade took it from her and turned it over, curious in spite of himself.

“What is it?”

“It’s a scarf, dear.  To keep you warm on those cold desert nights.  And look inside, pumpkin, there’s a surprise.”  Carefully, he unwound the scarf to find a wrapped package. 

“Just a few of Grandma’s cookies,” Lily informed him.  Arcade took one of the cookies and nibbled on the edge experimentally.  He frowned; it didn’t taste quite right, somehow. 

“What’s in this?” he asked her.  Lily gave what would have been a sweet laugh, if she hadn’t been a seven-foot-tall nightkin capable of breaking him in two without even breathing hard.

“Now, that would be telling, sweetheart!  It’s Grandma’s secret recipe.  Nothing that’ll hurt you; just a little something to help you keep up your strength. An army travels on its stomach, you know.”  She gave him another one of those disturbingly direct glances, and Arcade suddenly found himself remembering that Lily had been a soldier once too. Shrugging, he tucked the cookies away inside his armor, and wound the scarf around his neck.  “Now, you run along, dearie; Grandma has to go give Samara her present too!”

“Thanks, Lily,” he told her, and stepped into the elevator, pressing the button to descend to the casino.

[*]

Arcade was neither unintelligent nor dishonest; he could not pretend that he did not know why he was going down to the casino.  To wait for Samara, perhaps…but Samara had simply said to be ready to go in half an hour; she’d said nothing about where to meet.  No, he knew exactly what he was doing, and though he _also_ knew it was a terrible idea, he found himself powerless to resist it.  His heart was racing in his chest as he reached the ground floor and stepped out; the elevator’s chime was muted in the hush.

_She **told** me to,_ he told himself somewhat defensively.  _She told me to say her goodbyes for her.  And…_   He almost didn’t dare to think that this might be his last chance.  _What if we don’t come back?_

The casino floor was a dark, empty, cavernous space that took up most of the ground floor of the Lucky 38.  Banks of unused, silent slot machines stretched to either side of him, waiting for players that would never come.  The floor was lit by emergency lighting only; dim shadows lay over everything.  Despite its emptiness, it was strangely free of dust, cobwebs, or other signs of decay. Mr. House’s robots had kept the entire building clean and well-maintained over the two centuries since the bombs had fallen; yet somehow, that only added to the air of desolation.  Arcade strode forward a few steps from the elevator shaft and looked over to the left, to the bar against the far wall.  As he had expected, a pool of bright light was concentrated there, and he could just make out the outline of a solitary figure.

_Boone._

As if he were drawn by magnetic attraction, he found himself moving forward: down into the gaming pit, across the floor between the darkened slot machines and thence toward the bar area.  His heart was in his throat. Half-consciously, he reached up with numb fingers and unfastened the chin strap to his helmet, pulling it off and running a hand through his hair as he approached the NCR sniper.  Boone seemed not to even know he was there; the other man remained perched on his bar stool, staring down into his drink.  A half-filled bottle of whiskey  and an empty shot glass sat in front of him on the gleaming countertop; from the way he was slouched on the stool, Arcade would have been willing to bet that the bottle had been full when Boone first sat down at the bar.

He slowed as he drew near Boone, taking pains to keep his footfalls light and unobtrusive, to cause no disturbance to the other man.  The fantasy his mind had concocted earlier came to him again, and he scarcely dared to breathe.  His stomach knotted with yearning and his pulse pounded in his head; his hands were cold and clammy.  His eyes traced every line of the other man, engraving the image of him on his consciousness.  He swallowed, trying to quiet his racing heart; he was _so close_ ….

“Doctor.”

Boone spoke without turning, stopping him cold when he was still ten feet away.   His gut sank.    _Right.  What exactly did you think was going to happen?_ he berated himself.  His helmet dangled at his side from nerveless fingers.    “Yes,” he said simply.

“Heh.”  Boone snorted a derisive laugh.  “Knew it was you.  Nobody else would--would try ‘n’ sneak up on me like that.” Arcade felt himself flush.  “Did _she_ send you?  No, ‘course she didn’t.  I wouldn’t’ve, in her place.  So why _are_ you here?”

Arcade wet his lips; his mouth seemed to have gone dry.  “I, uh….”  He cleared his throat.  “I came to tell you that we’re going.  Samara and I.  We’re…we’re leaving in half an hour--“

“ _You’re_ going?”  Now Boone turned to look at him, and Arcade took a step back at the depths of torment in the man’s gray eyes.  “ _You’re_ going with her?”

Arcade said nothing.  Somehow, he suspected, nothing he could say at that moment would be the right thing.

Boone gave that laugh again, short, sharp and cynical.  “She’ll talk to _you,_ but not _me._   She’ll take _you_ with her, but not _me._   That’s pretty funny, when you think about it.  Downright hil--hilarious, in fact.”   He poured himself another shot and tossed it back.  “Do--d’you know what it’s like, doctor, to watch the person you love go to her--their destruction and be totally helpless to save them?  D’you know what it’s like to watch it _twice?”_   Boone suddenly buried his head in his hands.  “God, _God_ **\--** “ he snarled through his teeth. The words sounded like sobbing.  He grabbed for the whiskey again and took a swallow directly from the bottle this time.

_I understand, Boone,_ Arcade yearned to say.   He was silent.  He was wise enough to know that no matter the pain they caused him, his feelings for Boone essentially amounted to a schoolboy crush; he had nothing to compare to the sniper’s private hell.  He wet his lips again.  “I’m sorry,” he offered at last.

“Taking _you_ with her and not me,” Boone repeated, staring down at his empty glass.  “Yeah…funny, all right.  Funny like a bullet to--like a _brick_ to the head.”  Now the sniper turned and glowered at him.  “If I didn’t know better, doc, I might have sus--suspicions.”

Arcade drew a careful breath.  “I’m no threat to you, Boone.  You know that.” He bit the words off before he could say anything else.

Boone pushed his glass aside, and regarded Arcade speculatively.  The aroma of whiskey hung around him, so thickly it was almost visible in the air.  “Yeah.  C’mere.”  Those snake-like eyes were half-lidded.

Arcade took a wary step closer.  “What?”

Boone reached out and grabbed his arm, hard, yanking him close.  One hand went behind Arcade’s neck, pressing him closer still, forcing his lips against the other man’s.  The kiss was rough, brutal; there was nothing of tenderness or even desire in it.  It hurt, and it was intended to hurt.  Summoning all his strength, Arcade shoved Boone away, so hard that the other man almost fell off the barstool; he stepped back, out of Boone’s reach, and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.   He was panting with exertion.

“ _No._ ”  

Boone gave a thick laugh.  “C’mon.  I’ve seen you watching me.  You want this.  It’s not a secret.  Th--the whole suite knows, just like they know ‘bout Veronica and Samara.  Well, guess what: I’m finally drunk enough.  Now’s your chance.”

His words were slurred, but his eyes were crystal clear and ice cold.  Arcade swallowed hard, then drew a breath to steady himself.  He could still taste the whiskey of Boone’s kiss in his mouth, and it made him want to spit.  “ _Not like this._ ”

 The sniper gave another drunken laugh.  He poured himself another shot, then tossed it down.  “Well, doctor…”  Those flinty eyes bored into him.  Arcade had seen eyes like that above a loaded pistol aimed directly at him, and had known himself then to be a fraction of a second away from death.  “This is the _only_ chance you’re _ever_ going to get.  It’s this or nothing.  Your choice.”

“Then I’ll pass.”  He wrapped his arms around himself, drawing his shoulders in.

“Suit yourself.”  Boone took another gulp of whiskey straight from the bottle.  “Gomorrah’s…right across the street.”  Another laugh, short and vicious.  “I’ll be there if … anyone comes looking for me.”  He glanced upwards, in the direction of the Presidential Suite, and his face twisted.  

Arcade’s arms tightened.  “Make sure you use protection,” he said evenly.

“Heh.  I’ll do that.  And if she _doesn’t_ come looking….”  Another spasm crossed his face.  “Tell her where I am.  I want her to know.”  He slid off the stool, then, weaving slightly, made his way around the gaming pit toward the double doors. 

The moment they swung closed, Arcade took the seat Boone had recently vacated and laid his head in his hands.  He was breathing hard and shaking with reaction.     _Goddamn you, Samara,_ he thought bitterly.  _Goddamn you...._

The elevator chime sounded, startling him; a moment later, the heavy, clanking tread of Power Armor footsteps were coming toward him.  “There you are,” Samara said, approaching.  “Half an hour’s up. Time to go.”

Arcade straightened from the bar stool and turned to face her.  “Just FYI, Boone’s across the street at Gomorrah.”  His voice sounded thin and waspish in his own ears.  “He told me to tell you specifically.”

Now there was a hint of something: Samara’s brows contracted slightly, and her pale eyes clouded.  Then she set her shoulders as if to bear a heavy load. “Good for him.  I hope he has fun.  Let’s go.”  She jerked her head at the door.

“Samara, didn’t you hear?  The man you-- your _lover,_ ” he corrected forcefully “--is currently drowning his sorrows in a _whorehouse_.”  _After making a drunken lunge at me,_ he thought but did not say.  “Don’t you even _care?_ ”

Those pale eyes contracted still further.  She turned abruptly, like a jerky marionette, and began walking away with swift, rapid strides.  Arcade followed at her heels, digging for some kind, any kind of reaction, unsure even what it was he was looking for.  “What _do_ you care about, Courier?” he threw after her.  “Do you care about _anything at all?_ ”

Now she stopped, as if she’d been stung.  She turned to look at him, and Arcade’s protests died in his throat.  The eyes she turned on him were a match for Boone’s earlier; the eyes of someone in her own private hell, someone who was being driven by demons he could not begin to fathom.  He stepped back, half-raising his hands, either to placate her or to ward her off; he could not have told.

“I can’t afford to care.”  There was a strange helplessness in her voice.  “Maybe--maybe after all this is over with.  Not now.  Not with all this going on.  I can’t….”  She shrugged; he thought he actually saw her swallow.  “I just can’t.”  Her eyes were too bright.  She started to say something else, then swallowed again and fell silent, facing him, open and defenseless.

There were a myriad of arguments he might have made in return, but as he looked into those desperate eyes he saw clearly that it would be futile.  Whatever it was that was hounding her left no room for anything else.    For a moment longer, she held his gaze, letting him see her, see into her; in the back of his mind, he wondered if Boone had ever seen her like this….

Then she turned away, with the finality of a door swinging closed.   The moment was gone. 

“Come on.  We need to get moving, now.”

Several sharp retorts sprang to his mind, almost involuntarily; but for once, Arcade found himself too abashed to say them.  At last, with an acid shrug, he muttered, “ _Perge, sequar.”_

 She glanced back at him.  _“What?”_

“Never mind,” he said sourly.  “Just go.”  He clenched his fingers on the strap of his helmet and followed Samara across the casino floor and out through the doors, to the bright, neon-lit New Vegas Strip beyond.

_Finis._


End file.
